


Never Gonna Leave This Bed

by ice_evanesco



Series: Love Songs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_evanesco/pseuds/ice_evanesco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and John have an argument.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Gonna Leave This Bed

“Where. Have. You. BEEN?!”

Mycroft Holmes came to an abrupt stop at his doorstep as the door flew open and a short blonde man bellowed at him. Mycroft’s grey eyes widened, at the unpleasant shock that he had received.

John glared at the man before him; his fists clenched tightly, posture rigid. The doctor was gone; this was the soldier on the warpath. The silence stretched between them, brittle, tense.

“I was at work, John.” Mycroft finally replied, settling for a short version that wouldn’t take half the night to explain. He would tell John though, as much as he could, if only he could get out of the damnable cold and into that inviting warmth that John was blocking him from enjoying. He ached, badly, the long flight had done nothing to help his stiffness, and neither did hours of long meetings and discussions.

“Work!? You **VANISHED** for an entire **MONTH**.” John growled.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his default expression for ‘I don’t quite understand your behavior, but I’ll tolerate it for now’, and slipped past John, briefcase in one hand, and a small luggage in the other. “Yes, that’s usually what work entails.” He said coolly, as he passed his lover, not noticing John’s anger in his exhaustion.  “No need to resort to hysterics.”

“Get out.” John said shortly.

“Excuse me?” Mycroft turned, a frown creasing his forehead slightly.

“Get out.” John growled. His blue eyes were bright in anger.

“You cannot be seriously attempting to evict me from my own property, John.” Mycroft said, setting down his briefcase and luggage, taking out his phone to send a message to Anthea, before turning it off and putting it onto the mantelpiece.

“Watch me. This isn’t an attempt.” John grabbed Mycroft by the lapel, and dragged him towards the door, shoving him out, and slamming the door with a sharp click.

“J- What?” Mycroft was rarely at a loss for words, especially those of the cutting, searing kind, but he spluttered at the door for half a minute, completely nonplussed. Was this a miscalculation of some sort? What exactly had he done that was so reprehensible? He stood with a little frown, playing and replaying the last hour in his head, analyzing every little detail, leaning against the door.

He had left the airport, surrounded by his security detail, pleased with himself at a job well done. He thought about John, his John, John-the-doctor-soldier, mused over his lover as he walked towards the car. His sandy blonde hair (sometimes a brilliant gold in the sunset that filtered into their living room in the evenings when they cooked together), his blue eyes (there was a slight asymmetry between the two eyes, one slightly greener than the other, not enough to be heterochromia, but noticeable when Mycroft was curled up with him, sharing their breaths, drowning in each other’s warmth), his height (always a reason for Mycroft to help in the kitchen, leaning against his John as he reached for something on the top shelf- oddly almost everything essential to daily use was on the top shelf whenever Mycroft did the shopping), his smile (there had been a slight bitter curve that Mycroft had slowly erased over the years, and was now filled with a warm affection)… everything was slowly pondered and relished.

Mycroft had found himself stopping at a jewelers that evening, on impulse (he rarely ever went by impulse any more, except with John), and looking at the engagement rings. He had found a pair that he liked, and reserved them, not having money on him that wasn’t in foreign currency. He had been in a rush to return, and neglected to change his currency back to pounds.

Then, pleased and very tired, he had gotten back into the car, trying not to doze off despite jet lag and over four days of sleeplessness. Watching the scenery pass, he relished the sight of London again, glad to be home, watching people walk past with a bag of steaming hot fish and chips in their hand, and found himself craving  food. So he had reached for his phone, and called for take-away, arranged for it to arrive half an hour after he reached home, so he had time to shower and be in John’s company for a little while before he refueled himself. Chinese, Shrimp dumpling noodles for John, and a fried rice for himself with a side of sweet and sour pork.

Then he had arrived home.

Then he had been pushed out, back into the cold. No John. No food, no engagement rings, nothing. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, and decided to go for a walk.

He ended up in Hyde Park, a short distance from his house, and sat on a bench, shivering slightly in the cold. He slumped down, his head tilted back as he let out a sigh that fogged the air before him. His hand ran through his hair, tousling perfectly coiffed gingery locks, and tugged slightly. He had never completely outgrown his childhood habit of tugging his hair under stress, and it manifested now, as he stared into the ink-blackness of the swan pond.

John clenched his fists, taking deep breaths, storming to the couch and sitting down. He resolved to never open that door until Mycroft apologized for keeping him out of the loop. His leg gave a faint twinge, but he ignored it. The pain had returned full-force in the month when Mycroft was away, and had given him so much trouble that even walking was getting challenging.

He had no idea how long he sat there, just fuming, angry, staring at the photo on the wall of them together in Jamaica. Mycroft was there for a conference, and had somehow pulled strings to allow John to follow him. After that, the elder Holmes had extended their stay for a week after the conference. They lived in a villa, and just enjoyed their time together. He willed the people to stop smiling – just stop smiling damn it – but Mycroft still had his arm around John, and his lips were still in that smirk that said he knew everything, his usually cold grey eyes warm and happy, and John was still laughing, holding up a tiny fish that he had caught.

His throat closed up, and John looked down, at his trembling hands.

The door bell rang, and John stood, suddenly sick of being angry, sick of this stupid self-imposed separation. He limped to the door, and opened it, expecting Mycroft, even an angry Mycroft was fine, or a cold, closed off Mycroft. A tall gangly Chinese teen stood there instead. “Hey, I’m here to deliver the take-out?”

“Take-out?” John stared blankly.

“Yeah. Shrimp dumpling noodles, and fried rice with sweet and sour pork, ordered by a Mr. Holmes.” The teen read off the receipt.

“Oh – Yes, you’re at the right place.” He took the food, and added, “Let me get my wallet –”

“It’s been paid for.” The teen smiled, and left. John stood for a moment, then looked out the door, expecting, for a moment, that Mycroft would be outside, maybe sulking in a corner like Sherlock would be, and smoking a cigarette. His absence was conspicuous.

John swallowed, his throat tight again, holding the food in one hand, feeling even more lonely than the entire month put together and distilled. He wanted so badly in that moment to be curled up on their couch together, a blanket over them, talking about nothing of importance and everything of meaning. The food packets would be precariously balanced upon their knees, both of them eating with one hand, because the other was entrapped, holding each other tight.

He had let his pride and hurt get in the way of that, cornering his lover even before he had stepped in, and driving him off. He thought about how run-down Mycroft had looked, his shoulders hunched slightly against the wind, and how pleased to be home, a slight smile playing on his lips (had Mycroft been thinking about him? About them?) He thought of how that smile had vanished, and the shoulders had straightened in the face of confrontation, tense and ready to retaliate.

The food was uneaten, cold, on the coffee table.

John was curled up on the couch, his face buried in the crook of his arm, the long sleeve of a cashmere jumper that Mycroft had given him slightly damp with salty tears. Mycroft’s coat was clutched in the other hand, like a talisman to summon his lover back. The pale autumn sun played with his hair.

Mycroft sat in a café a few blocks down, nursing a warm cup of coffee, sleepless, mind still racing, picking apart the crucial five minutes that had caused them to spend their night separate. The coffee turned cold, and still he held on, inspecting his reflection in it, hoping to glean some answers from the dark elixir. Anthea was opposite him, his faithful assistant, typing on her Blackberry silently, leaving him to his thoughts. The sun bathed a small red box in warmth.

“You should return home, sir.” Anthea said, softly.

Mycroft looked up, and gave her a weary, slightly sad smile, “I should indeed.”

She turned her phone to him, and showed him the image of his living room. He let out a breath, “Oh, _John_.”

The door opened, and Mycroft let himself in. He had expected himself to be angry, or bitter, or cold. He only felt tenderness and concern for the man sleeping on the couch. His footsteps were soft, made soundless by his socks. He knelt beside John, and gently moved his arm away, stroking that worn, tired, kindly face. His fingers were slightly tacky from the salt as he drew away. His heart clenched in him; until that moment, he had always thought the word “heart-wrenching” was simply an expression, but he felt it, and it hurt.

It hurt to have caused John so much pain.

It hurt to be separated from John. He had been so busy that he had forgotten John, and how John must have suffered in that month.

In that moment, he realized his mistake.

“Oh, John, I never wanted to cause you any pain.” He whispered, holding his lover’s hand, stroking his knuckles. “I love you, so very much.” He pressed a kiss to his lover’s forehead, and pulled away, heading into the kitchen and shutting the door.

John woke to the smell of bacon and eggs and sausages. He sat up with a jerk, looking wildly around, wondering if he was still dreaming. The coat slipped off his shoulders, and he clutched at it. His eyes fell on a pair of leather shoes by the door, and noticed the closed kitchen door. His lover was back.

Mycroft turned to find John leaning by the door, watching him. “I thought you were locked out.” John said, his voice slightly hoarse.

Mycroft smiled, “I have a duplicate keycard in my office, John.” He turned back and slid the eggs out of the pan, into the plates, then turned back to John as he toasted bread in the left over fat from the bacon.

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft spoke, his voice suddenly soft. “I didn’t realize how insensitive my actions were. Heaven knows how much anxiety I must have caused you over the past month.”

John leaned against the door frame, silent, looking down.

“John –” Mycroft broke the silence, slightly desperate. Surely John understood -

“Your toast is burning.” John huffed as he looked up. He entered the kitchen, and slapped Mycroft in the chest with his coat, “Go and shower, I’ll re-do the toast.”

Mycroft blinked, stumped, for the second time in twenty-four hours.

“Go.” John urged, and kissed him, on the corner of his mouth. “Breakfast will be done in 5 minutes. You had better eat. ” He was smiling for a moment, before he turned to scowl at the blackened toast, tossing it into the bin “Honestly, you both – completely inept in cooking.”

Mycroft felt a rare grin spread across his face, as relief spread through him, before he turned to do as John had instructed. They weren’t perfect, but Mycroft would never give up on this relationship, as long as it was in his power to keep this love burning bright.


End file.
